Monday, about 6 p.m.
“You sold yourself to a serial killer? For school supplies?” By the third time Joan had screeched it — with her dramatic pause in between for me to curl up and feel mortified — I had actually begun to think of myself as a harlot plying my favors for glue sticks and crayons. It was an ugly picture.
“Joan, you’re overreacting. I’m not selling myself… just loaning out my presence, so to speak.” I was on her non-working recliner again, which seemed to be where I always landed in her second floor apartment.
“That’s exactly what Julia Roberts told Richard Gere when he hired her as his companion for a week.” Joan used air quotes for the operative word.
“This isn’t anywhere near a full week, it’s just one evening and all we’re doing is barbecue.”
“Even that sounds illicit when you’re being paid in cold hard cash.”
“He said it’s a gift card…”
“Chloe, do you hear yourself?” Joan was practically stomping by that point so I figured the downstairs neighbors would soon be involved in our spirited debate. “Just because it’s for the kids in your class doesn’t make prostitution okay. At the very least, it’s somewhere on the chart with human trafficking.”
I’d known it was a mistake to confer with Joan, but I really needed a woman’s take on what Brett had said about wanting to see me again… and she lived so close by. To this point, we hadn’t gotten past my friend’s screeching recriminations.
“So he wants to see you again,” Joan sneered. “That’s exactly what the Boston Strangler told those unfortunate, deluded women in whatever place that was.”
“Boston, I believe.”
“Probably so. He laid on the charm and made them feel wanted.” Joan huffed. “Sure, he wanted those unfortunate girls, so he could strangle them and chop them up… or whatever else he was into.”
“That was a bit before my time.”
“Well, your time is coming, Chloe. I said before that you’re probably Victim Eleven, but now I figure this guy has handed out two or three dozen gift cards and probably has at least that many bodies — hidden in the lake, the quarry, and out in the woods. I’m surprised your students haven’t stumbled over one of them during a field trip.”
I tried to calm her. “Joan, just sit down and listen for a minute. Stop reacting like you’re a grocery tabloid and just be my friend. I need to know why this man wants to see me again so much that he’d come up with this preposterous scheme.”
She clutched my wrist and squeezed like she was checking me for osteoporosis. “Chloe, you listen to me. I know you’re flattered at what he said. Heck, any girl would be. But you have to think past his words… and certainly way beyond the gift card he’s hooked you with. Why would a normal red-blooded male need to resort to bets and bribes to get a date?” She took a deep breath. “I mean you said he’s okay-looking—”
“He’s a lot more than okay,” I interrupted. “He’s actually pretty dadgum fine.”
“Okay, no difference — Ted Bundy was cute, too. You have to ask yourself why he uses all these gimmicks. Why won’t he just call you up like regular guys do?”
“Regular guys don’t call me, Joan.”
She couldn’t argue away that key point, though neither of us had figured why guys didn’t call me. Of course, Joan didn’t date much either, which I put down to her tendency to screech and stamp her feet.
But Brett’s unique approach had puzzled me too. And if I survived the evening with him, I intended to inquire. For now, I had a hunch. “Maybe he’s just shy…”
“Shy? He’s shy like Hugh Hefner is prudish!” More sputter and a bit more foot stamping. “Chloe, he’s reeling you in. Maybe not while eating barbecue tonight, but once he totally lulls you into letting down your guard… then he’ll pounce.”
By that point, I’d tuned her out. I understood Joan’s concerns, but she couldn’t seem to accept the slim possibility that a nice-looking man was interested in me. And, to my hopes and dreams, it would not be as Victim Eleven.
I also borrowed her old AC power cord, since the battery on her antique laptop had died at some point during the millennial change. Yeah, that meant I hadn’t gotten any writing done on Sunday night after the pizza.
****
Later that evening
After I returned home from Joan’s I got to thinking about my day at school — much like any other except that between every class section I’d mulled over snippets of Sunday’s experience with Brett at the pizza place. Also, I couldn’t help noticing how bare my classroom cabinets were of operating supplies; it seemed well below survival level even for that late in the school term.
Brett had disarmed me with his final comment of last evening — he only wanted to see me again. Under different circumstances, such a sentiment could seem rather sweet, but his use of the juicy bribe rankled me.
Running all this by Joan had provided no moral support at all, yesterday or today, so I just shrugged on my martyr cloak and admitted I was loaning myself to a handsome stranger for his money. Yeah, it sounded awfully mercenary, but I rationalized it was for my second graders, so I could swallow my pride or indignation… or whatever morality might be in play.
I also decided Brett was correct that our evening would have no chance of being even remotely pleasant if I brought along all the attitude and bristle. I even briefly wondered if I could manage to play-act a little agreeable charm. Nah, probably not. I intended to be pleasant enough to show him I was trying, but sufficiently frosty that he’d fully understand I didn’t want to.
But I wouldn’t scuttle my appearance this time, because there was a much greater chance at the barbecue place that I’d encounter some folks I knew. No, I’d play fair — showing up in whatever I’d wear if I actually found him attractive. Well, he was attractive — that Christine woman in line behind me certainly found plenty to drool over. I meant I’d select clothing as though it were a real date with somebody I actually wanted to be around.
I settled on a short-sleeved V-necked blouse, freshly dried jeans with no visible holes, plus socks and sneakers. In Verdeville, that would be appropriate for opera tickets… had there ever been such a production that far east of Nashville.
About twenty minutes later, when I arrived in the parking lot, Brett was already there, leaning on the front of his truck as before. Seemed to be wearing the same clothes, too, but as I got closer I realized they were just similar variations of denim, high and low — with slightly different styling details. So slight, in fact, that he probably thought they were all identical.
Not as apprehensive as I’d been at the pizza place for punishment number one, I actually relaxed a bit and decided to try to enjoy the barbecue, which was always delicious there. But I was still kicking myself for getting sucked into the second penance.
When we were ushered into the smaller porch area off the main dining room, I wondered if he’d made arrangements or if it had been the luck of the draw. On Monday evenings, the Ranch House was not usually busy enough to open its porch section.
I was, indeed, more pleasant than before, but nevertheless studied Brett like an uncategorized specimen. Not that I believed anything Joan had warned me about, but I did need to figure out this man’s modus operandi. I could not accept at face value that he simply wanted to get to know me — if I were that fascinating, someone would have tipped me off long ago.
The meal was delicious and I relaxed enough to enjoy my dinner and his company, but I was still quite skeptical. Also I hadn’t seen the card yet, so maybe he needed a prompt. “So, was it worth a hundred dollars to dine with me?”
His eyes seemed to scan all the data in my brain. “It was worth that investment to get you to give me a real chance.”
“Chance at what?”
“For you to get to know me a little.”
“Oh, I think I know you well enough.” I tried to get my eyes to penetrate his cerebral data, but they only offered a few guesses.
He continued to study me. “For most people, it requires a few exposures, because it takes me a while to warm up.”
“You seem plenty hot to me already.” Oops, that came out horribly wrong. But I figured it would be worse to try to explain it, so I glanced down at my tea glass instead.
I caught his slight smile in the reflection of his watch face.
After a few seconds, I looked up again but did not meet his eyes. “So why do people supposedly find it so difficult to get to know you?”
As he shook his head, the grin faded. “Not sure. Folks seem to expect something in particular… and inside, I’m apparently not quite what they figured.”
At that point I had flashbacks to Joan’s shrill warnings, but kept them to myself. “So the image you project varies from the real you.” I did that also… and imagined most people probably did.
He nodded slightly. “Not exactly, but I guess you’re close.”
After the waitress cleared our plates, Brett pulled from his pocket the gift card he’d pledged and slid it pointedly toward my hand. “Just like I promised.”
“I would ask to see your receipt, because I know you bought this today, but I’ve decided not to let that part of your fib worry me.” I flipped over the card to see if it looked legitimate. “But I do still find it bizarre that you concocted such a ruse just so you didn’t have to eat your brisket alone.”
“It’s not about the meal, Chloe.” He looked wounded. “I thought I’d made that clear.”
Not even close to clear, but I didn’t want to bicker about it. “Okay, Mr. Hardy, we had the required pizza last night and now you’ve collected on your bribe to ply me with barbecue. But I don’t know why you bothered — we’ll never see each other again in a million years, unless you happen to have a kid in second grade.”
His eyes probed mine for a moment. “Suppose we did see each other again.”
My head was already shaking sideways. No way I’d get near this guy a third time, even without all of Joan’s hysterics.
“Now, hear me out.” It was obvious he was thinking in mid-stride. “What say we make another wager?”
“Don’t bet on it.” Why would I bother? “Both our transactions are complete — the wager and the bribe. This time you have no emergency edge over me, I don’t need any more supplies for this semester, and I won’t be maneuvered into another, uh, situation.”
His bright blue eyes bore into me as he basically ignored my outburst and gave me a moment to settle. “I’ve got a hunch you were a bit of a tomboy way back when…”
I nodded before I could stop myself.
“…and I wager you hardly ever backed away from a dare. Plus, anybody who would line up outside an electronics store in the pitch dark obviously has a lot of competitive zeal.” He was clearly stalling in order to come up with the next pieces of a wily plan. “Furthermore, I’ll bet you have the soul of a writer and it could be grist for a novel or something.”
I eyed him suspiciously — I did not recall having mentioned my writing to him. How could he know? Did I have ink stains on my fingertips? Could he actually read my mind?
“Well, perhaps not.” He squinted. “But in any case, if you win this wager, we both walk away and I’ll never pester you again.”
It would probably be something bizarre like climbing a tall tree to steal a feather from a bird’s nest. “What if I lose the new bet?”
“Then we eat Italian on Wednesday night.”
My inner Joan voice warned, “This guy’s a total nut case,” but I also remembered the appraisal of my new acquaintance, Christine, who’d salivated over this muscular, tanned — and very crafty — man presently seated next to me. “Not saying I’ll agree, but what’s the new wager about?”
“Are you ticklish?”
“Not saying ‘til I hear your proposition.”
“Okay, fair enough. I’ve got you pegged for a woman who’s pretty ticklish but also has so much self control that you’d practically kill yourself before you’d show any signs of being tickled.”
I suddenly had an image of him wiggling a knuckle against my ribcage and I slid farther back in the chair. “Not that I’m even halfway considering this idiotic plan of yours, but just for the sake of discussion… what area of the body would be, um, tickled? I mean, obviously there would be considerable zones which are totally off limits.”
He eyed me like I was the choice barbecued brisket he’d recently devoured. “One single spot…visible to me now.”
I looked around our smaller room to see if anyone was near enough to hear. “And absolutely no disrobing…”
It took him a while to respond, so I guessed he was thinking about what was under my clothing. “Nothing has to come off and we can do it right here at the table.”
Somehow that sounded quite kinky even though I still had no idea what he was planning. “Since you’re a proven stickler for details, let me get this straight. If I win — with no visible signs of me being ticklish — then you’ll never pester me again. But if I do reveal that I’m ticklish, I’m compelled to attend another, um, event.”
He nodded. “Which we’d typically call dates.”
“Don’t you ever just ask women out the normal way?”
Brett thought a second. “Occasionally, but sometimes I enjoy the wager.”
“Why?”
“Oh, the sport, I guess. Plus, I seldom lose.” Another grin. “So do you accept this proposal?”
Alarm bells were ringing in my head, but it would be a small victory to end this crazy interaction with a clean break. Plus, I did have a lot of willpower and really thought I could beat him. “Clarify how you intend to tickle me… and precisely where.”
He leaned forward and whispered, “With two fingertips and my tongue…”
“Your tongue!” My voice was so loud, it surprised both of us, the people two tables away who suddenly looked our direction, and a waitress who nearly dropped her tray as she scurried toward the kitchen. Then, in an urgent, somewhat hoarse whisper of my own, I continued, “You can’t lick me in public, you pervert!” Then I remembered his caveat: it involved part of my body that was visible. I guessed he was talking about my neck or ears, which were extremely ticklish. “Everything above my collarbone is totally off-limits.”
He nodded slowly, smiling like he had a tasty secret. “You’ve eliminated several logical spots which would’ve surely cost you the wager. Well played.”
That buoyed my confidence a bit. My legs and feet — two other danger zones — were totally covered and therefore out of play.
From his leisurely nod of acknowledgement, I wondered if he’d eavesdropped on my thoughts again. His omniscient grin looked like he had me cornered at feeding time. “So are we on?”
I ran back through the details — seemed pretty safe. There was no other skin showing besides my arms and hands, which weren’t even ticklish. “Oh, Mr. Stickler, we haven’t talked about duration. How many hours do you expect me to sit here while you’re groping and licking?”
“Only ninety-eight seconds… the amount of time you were late Saturday morning.”
I figured I could put up with bamboo shoots under my fingernails for ninety-eight seconds, so I finally nodded. “Okay… deal.”
“One more condition,” he said as he scooted his chair closer, mostly blocking the view from the only other customers in that section, “you have to keep your eyes closed the entire time.”
That was a weird wrinkle. What was he planning to do — steal my purse and run away? “Uh, okay, but you keep changing the stipulations after we’ve already made the wager. There’s a penalty for post-contract revisions.” I remembered that from when I almost considered law school.
“What kind of penalty?” He seemed quite intrigued. “If you win the bet, I’m gone forever.”
I tried to think quickly. “But if I don’t win — because of all these extra conditions you’ve imposed — I now have one trump card which I can play, at any time, for any reason, to change anything I want… about whatever’s going on.”
“Whew! That’s a good one. Okay, so you have the title Queen in a game of Hearts.” He grinned again. “And the fact that you’ve added that to the wager convinces me that you’re worried you’ll lose.”
“Ninety-eight seconds.”
He nodded.
I took a deep breath, he started his watch, and I closed my eyes.
At first it seemed like butterflies were dancing lightly on the inside of my forearm — for what must have been an hour — and I had trouble controlling my breathing. Then I felt the soft, warm tip of his tongue glide lightly from the inside of my elbow — very slowly — to the middle of my palm and back again. That took another hour and I shivered. Then a cool, extremely focused breeze played over that narrow moist trail and, during that third hour, I melted.
“Ninety-eight seconds… time’s up. I win.”
I opened my eyes and stared at my goose-pimpled arm as though it had deliberately betrayed me. I knew there was no point in pretending I had withstood his tickle torture without manifesting how deliciously my body responded to those sensations.
“I’ll pick you up at seven on Wednesday.”
I didn’t even argue. My body still tingled and my brain hadn’t found speech yet.
“And you can bring your Queen of Hearts trump card, in case you predict a need to play it.”
With the bit of remaining strength I possessed, I muttered, “You can bet on it.”
Brett pushed away from the table abruptly, as though he didn’t want to give me a chance to change my mind, left a large tip for the waitress, and took the bill. He was already paid and gone by the time I collected myself.
I couldn’t believe I’d dropped my guard, especially when I’d had both barrels loaded and was ready to give him a piece of my mind. Instead I got distracted and gave him a taste of my skin… and I was certain I’d never hear the end of that from Joan.
Later, on my way home, I wondered why Brett had been so vague about his personal information. When I reached my house and threw myself on the couch, I couldn’t get Mr. Barbecue out of my head and realized — though embarrassed to articulate it — that I wanted his tongue all over me, starting with my lips.
I would have to be a lot more hostile at the Italian place on Wednesday.
I plugged in Joan’s ancient laptop but as it whirred and cranked with early 1990s technology, I fell asleep.